


Ocean Hides the Day

by londonfalling



Series: the twin Castor and twin of Castor [3]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brother/Brother Incest, First Time, Incest, M/M, Or Is It?, Romance, Sibling Incest, Time Travel, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 17:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonfalling/pseuds/londonfalling
Summary: Vergil, recently back to one piece, finds himself back in time before the events of Temen-ni-gru. Predictably, Dante is there to complicate things (a 5V/3D oneshot).





	Ocean Hides the Day

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone thing or a continuation of the other parts of the series.

Dante spits blood on the ground.

“Fine, I believe it, you're him.” He lets the “you won” linger in the air unsaid, but Vergil tastes its sweet flavor as sharply as Dante must taste the rich iron in his mouth. He savors it, the one hedonistic pleasure he has always allowed himself to have − it goes down like a particularly fine wine, pleasantly thick and developed, patiently curated in a cask of years' and years’ worth of vainglory and discord born out of stubborn will to misinterpret every gesture, a dark, bitter current making the delight that much brighter. In his worse moments he thinks of the broad expanse of the ocean of time separating them as waste; he sees his brother's adolescent face, usually in a form less corporeal than this, and wonders how it has developed such a hard but desperately flimsy shell during their youth apart. It could be built out of marble or bone instead of this angrily spun glass he detects now and he would still see trough it, of course; such is the connection between them, such is Vergil's devoted attentiveness to him. Be as it may, it bothers him that he feels the need to try and shield himself from him by hiding behind it. He sees the bravado for what it is, a strategy to cope, but cannot help questioning if Dante would have retained his endearingly soft openness, his outright naivety, should things have been different, should he have stayed with him.

It is an easy trap to fall into. The speculation, the useless pipe dream of a universe that bends to their wishes and sweeps away the debts they must pay for Father's failures even when they have yet to compensate the interests. Pure conjecture, but alluring all the same. There's a delicate pain to this kind of masochism Vergil has grown to enjoy in moderate amounts when the nights become too long and their liabilities too heavy for one to carry alone − a golden mean between pain and release. It is fine to indulge in an exquisitely excruciating fantasy occasionally if it is what he needs to remind himself of the pay-offs which seem to be gliding farther and farther away the more he tries, but he cannot get lost in it. The sea is but water and the lonely decades are but a sacrifice at the break of dawn; in the moment the darkness might seem endless and all-consuming, but the morning glow is silky and soothing, the aurora that much rosier after nocturnal light.

It has not been in vain when even this, the simplest of victories, raises a lush, drunken warmth to his lips. He lets them thaw into a pale smile. Dante has all the keys he needs to read his expression for what it is if he wants to, but if he would rather persist in thinking of him as something frigid and passionless and interpret it as him jeering, it is his decision to do so, however unfortunate and unbecoming to them both. Vergil has no authority to preach when it comes to bad choices. With no one to raise them for the vast majority of their youth, perhaps the only method of learning there is for them is the hard way.

“Good.” He lets his sibling gather himself in peace. He is as quick as ever to bounce back from the deep, careful lacerations Yamato has bitten on his skin − a precise exercise in Vergil's patience. He swallows the last mouthful of the bleed demonstratively and licks the excess of it from coloring his tightly set lips, which makes Vergil almost lament the loss of it. Few things are as effective at driving him out of his mind as his blood is. Just the scent of it hanging tantalizingly around them is enough to set his teeth on edge with a pleasure he lacks the right time to reclaim. It is a law of nature that Dante looks good in red; a lesser being might call him in this crimson coat and bared breast − save for the thin leather straps covering his nipples for feigned modesty and showcasing an underlying wickedness in exchange − a sin, but Vergil is content to declare it another futile attempt to convince himself and the world of his attachment to human values.

He is not above to admitting to being weak for his naked skin, even when it is paraded before his eyes like a cheap and tasteless spread of an illustrated pornographic magazine, but in all honesty, he prefers the thought of unwrapping him from multiple layers of clothes and prolonging the excitement. To be even franker, there is a jealous part of him that would like Dante to conceal himself from the eyes of the unworthy and prying; while any mark Vergil might lay on him would not be preserved on the forever unused parchment of his body for long, he enjoys the vision of them both knowing they were there, now under his clothing and protected from the invasive curiosity of outsiders. That his modesty failed to guard him against the gaze of Arkham, the vulture, is, of course, another thing altogether. He is only a hypocrite when the situation calls for it.

Fair enough. Dante enjoys making himself a common exhibition; Vergil, in turn, will not shame himself for imagining him debauched.

Having at last composed himself to some degree, Dante runs his dirtied fingers though his unruly fringe and paints some locks red. His eyes assume a challenging quality when he fixes them on Vergil.

“You're Vergil, just like you said, and you do look old enough to be from some other time in the future, sure, whatever. Feel like explaining what you're doing here, though? We didn't exactly part on good terms, the younger you and I, last time we met.”

“I do not know,” he replies simply. It is the truth, even if it is also a partial one. He has a mostly solid working theory as to why he suddenly finds himself twenty-five or twenty-six years down the path he has already travelled along with some alternative hypotheses, but nothing is set in stone yet. Vergil has been here only for a handful of time, after all.

A short while ago, he awoke from an unsettlingly profound hibernation outside of his brother's gaudy office. “Devil Never Cry,” it addressed him, drawing a sardonic smile from him. Indeed. Lured outside by his instincts, it did not take long for his twin to appear and confirm what he already had suspected from the surrounding buildings he distantly remembers seeing newly in ruins from the top of the tower, now as intact as one could expect from a place as desolate as this. It is his younger brother, younger. He looks the same he did the first time they met after the death of their mother and childhood and when they reunited briefly at Temen-ni-gru, only less haunted and angrier, as if he has been letting his fury for him boil uninterrupted since their brotherly quarrel in the rain and has not yet had his emotions about Sparda's inheritance get the better of him like he did, does, will, during their rendezvous above the clouds. The anger burst out uncontrollably and overrode Dante's confusion about his only somewhat familiar aged face and body; Vergil only managed to greet him and clarify that it was still him, merely from a later date, before he came at him with a welcoming kiss of Rebellion that was wide of the mark but remarkably impassioned. “We'll see about that,” he exclaimed when Vergil avoided his next attack absent-mindedly, and they did. Vergil came, saw and conquered, and while the olive branch of defeating a Dante that was more beside himself than normally was hardly an accomplishment, it served as a means of verifying some things for them both. Fighting him is always worth something in itself, regardless.

Travel through time, a disturbingly vivid sleep paralysis or a malevolent chimera − it cannot be another demon impersonating Dante, that much is sure by the unmistakable siren song of his blood, but that rules out only so much − Vergil has a guess and intends to find out the truth. As long as he has no concrete evidence, however, Dante does not have to know the full extent of his suspicions. If he does after Vergil will have gleaned what there is to know about his situation, well, that depends. Not solely on Dante, eighteen or nineteen, himself.

Dante, eighteen or nineteen and mostly done licking his wounds, clears his voice with a cough. When he speaks, he sways up and down on his heels; an outlet to nervous energy which he wants to channel somewhere else than his words or face.

“Are you in a hurry, then? To go back or do whatever. I mean − just listen. The way I see it, you could profit from having me by your side now. You've got your memories, sure, but my knowledge of this time is just that, fresh info. And two pairs of eyes got to be better than one, anyway. I could keep them trained on whatever you want.” After all this time, Dante still manages to surprise him. He cherishes it at least as much as he is unsettled by it, how exciting it is to have his expectations proven inaccurate. As well-acquainted as he is with him, there is never a dull moment when it concerns his constantly shifting moods. Mercurial, infuriating, challenging. His brother; the bane of his existence, the salt of his earth, his.

The lines are delivered as casually as everything else when Dante is pumped up with this kind of restless, incautious animation − not very, but he plays his anxiety down and brings the offer up as something as inconsequential as his general swagger and aggression. All he is missing is waggling his eyebrows suggestively to complete the picture. Vergil is not in the habit of doing blind purchases, though, no matter how seductive the salesman may be, because or in spite of his poor efforts to imitate the succubi.

“Are you suggesting me a way to get on your good side?”

Dante huffs, not wanting his motives analyzed. It must be nevertheless clear to him that Vergil does not really need his answers to do so, it just saves them both trouble and makes it almost seem like they are civilized individuals exchanging polite courtesies. That is something he, the Philistine, must stand against in heart and soul. “Sure.”

“And how do you propose we should go about that?”

Dante weighs his options one last time and closes his eyes for a breath. When he opens them, the determination shines brighter than the familiar blue.

“You know, I thought about proposing you.”

He drifts closer, a ridiculous sway in his hips. The sight has no right to make his mouth as dry as it does. His attempt of boosting his sex appeal are juvenile and as a result merely flaunt his utter inexperience. On that account, it is an unfortunate Achilles' heel to be so hopelessly attracted to them. Dante smiles when he disembarks just in front of him, exuding shyness and overt self-confidence in equal measure. He might have no idea what he is doing in general and what he is doing to Vergil and his desire to claim what is clearly untouched with this particular display now, but let it not be said it is ineffective. Vergil's sentimentality will be the death of him some day, both metaphorically and, most likely, in the letter.

“Be more exact,” he says measuredly, just to see him squirm. His beloved little brother is approximately as subtle as he is capable of understanding subtlety; Vergil, without doubt, would not have managed to catch his errant attention with anything less than erecting a sky-soaring, blatantly demonic edifice and sending the odious dogsbody of a man to spell his invitation out, just in case. Bless his heart; he makes it almost too easy to play with him.

And squirm he does. He does not do it visibly, for the most part; the sly expression twitches and there is an annoyed discord in the middle of his jaunty first harmonic. The signs wash out as quickly as they came ashore and give way to a self-satisfied grin that could be accurately described only with the term “shit-eating”. Dante's words, not his. He eyes him boldly from head to toe and raises his eyes from his midriff slowly, flushed and unblushing.

“Well, I was hoping it was obvious so I wouldn't have to highlight it to you and make a fool of myself if I'm reading things wrong. But maybe I'm noticing you noticing me and like it.” He brushes a hand against Vergil's hip, uncharacteristically sensual and understated. The touch is light but speaks volumes of his possessive intent. Had Vergil predicted this, he would have expected him to splay his open palm straight on his crotch to underline his meaning. The lashes he would undoubtedly have received from his katana due to the maneuver would likely only have spurred him on. Every now and then, he wonders what Sparda had anticipated for his children; in all likelihood not this, but that would only belie his foolishness of ignoring what kind of bearing his side of the gene pool could produce in his offspring. He is glad for his demonic inheritance all the same: Dante is perfect in his multitude of imperfections, the devil bleeding seamlessly into the man in spite of his attempts to keep them separated and compartmentalized in his mind. “Maybe I'd like to touch you,” Dante says. His voice is clinging to his gullet, already thick, heavy and thirsty.

It is just like every variation of him he's ever known, Vergil reflects fondly, to immediately pour his energy into another fight after being cut down by Yamato.

There is a tinge of sadness mixed into the observation. He is so ready, if not to outright forgive him, at least to forget and throw himself at him at the slightest chance that he must be more affected by their disagreement at eighteen than Vergil has pictured. He masks it in nonchalance, well enough to fool some vapid human and perhaps even himself, however superficially. Vergil acknowledges the blatant adaptation mechanism and leaves it in peace. Dante has his walls, he has his own. There will be a time to tear them down, but it is not tonight.

(There is always an uncomfortable aspect to having to face the extent to which Dante loves him.)

“And that is what would buy me your favor and help in this?” he asks drily. Merely a figure of speech; it does not come out parched like his twin's words. The effect is still somewhat undermined by the fact that Dante is evidently aware of his state of arousal. Black leather might hide a multitude of vices but is currently doing nothing to cover up what some would consider his only virtue, his affinity to his sibling. That more observers would deem the depth of his affections a foul aberration is of no consequence to him as long as Dante does not flinch in disgust, when he eats him up like this.

“What can I say,” Dante grins even wider, his regard hungry. “I'm easy.” He is anything but and they both know this well, but it is also common knowledge between them that it is easy for him to get a rise out of Vergil, for his feelings to triumph over him when Dante gets there to complicate things. Sharing the same space with him, drinking in his proximity, it is difficult to fault him for it.

There a myriad of ways this could go awry, but then again, when is that not the case? It could, in any event, let him test out some of his theories; if the situation gets out of hand, something must give. Every now and then, the best way to find out the truth is to let things develop and escalate on their own momentum. He is quite used to observing traffic accidents at close quarters by now. Moreover, Vergil is fairly confident in his ability to subdue this Dante even divested of his pants: he is good but still green and, worse still, much too easy to distract.

He feels almost like shrugging his shoulders in a universal gesture of “why not”. He has waited long enough.

It is strange to have the bigger frame between them. Dante does not seem to mind when he envelopes his smaller body with his own and fits them into a clumsy embrace. It is inelegant; Dante's hands hover on his back and he is tenser than he lets on. “Your seduction could use some work, it really is atrocious,” Vergil says to help him unwind with their customary bickering. It is either the words or his own palms which rake the curves and planes of Dante's body slowly but surely that make him relax and encourage him to take what he wishes. When he feels him reach his ass, his lips are wearing a mischievous curve and the touch is forward and adventurous.

Dante laughs, wild in his fervor. “Teach me, then.” To prevent him from throwing any additional trite clichés at him, Vergil kisses him silent. After an initial surprised cry, it works as intended; he is virtually instantly melting against him and sighing into his mouth and sneaking his hands between them to rest against his chest, soft and pliant and only slightly regretful for having to divert his attentions elsewhere. Vergil would be content to stay like this for an indefinite period of time; Dante's skin is burning with a heady fire that makes his blood flicker in return, and he likes basking in the warmth while enjoying the sharp edge of lust lying beneath. He likes saying things he has never quite managed to voice by other means, effortlessly; with his lips unhurriedly pressing against his, at one time each other's true copies, twin reflections on a watershed. The risk of him misreading his very baseline declines the more the less there are words exchanged. _I am here now_, he thinks, _but I am never less yours for being absent._

Dante, on the contrary, is as eager as ever to burn his fingers. Now that his occasionally surfacing insecurity has been assured, he gets needy in his touches and sounds. Even though the fabric of Vergil's vest is thick and relatively unbending like a shell, he feels his finger rub against his nipple maddeningly sharply. The chafe is relentless once it has commenced; at first his skin is hit by an electric shock, which resides when the friction makes it warmer and raw. When he lets out a growl, Dante is quick to slip his tongue inside his mouth. The kiss gets deeper and Dante's touches greedier and greedier until he presses back and inside. Dante lets him know his delight at this by crushing their bodies closer and grinding his hardening cock on him, as hot under the leather as his tongue is against his. Heat blooms under his collar, under the finger still torturing his breast. There is a lovely sound when he spreads his hand in Dante's messy hair and then tugs ungently; it gets louder when Vergil breaks their lips apart, the thrusting and moaning wonderfully selfish, and again, now pleased, when he bites his white neck. The dedications disappear almost instantly when he stops engraving them on him and lifts his teeth and lips like surface tension fixing its blemishes, but they are already under each other's skin. It is not an act of claiming an ownership he has always had: for once, he does not feel compelled to assign hidden meanings to their actions and lets himself simplify things, categorizes it all merely as pure want. He bites and licks and kisses until he feels Dante's frustrated tremble vibrate against his tongue.

“I want to blow you,” Dante says when he has lifted his head from his clavicle, his hungry pupils blown and eyes inky black. The admission is emphasized with another frantic buck of his hips. His instinctual reply is to grind back and bite him one last time to suppress whatever incoherent there is bubbling in his larynx.

“Please,” he adds, seemingly self-satisfied to know which strings to pull.

“Inside,” Vergil replies. While this is not the set-up he would have chosen for this, albeit it would be a lie to assert that Dante's office has played no part in some made-up scenarios he has toyed with while toying with himself, he is less fixated on his fanciful designs than in his youth. Distance brought on by aging and witnessing every contingency he has devised collapse, he supposes. Dante has the upper hand in this; seeing how all his carefully concocted plans to keep them separated for his safety have fallen apart after one another, he does not have it in him to deny his brother when he is asking him explicitly.

Dante grabs him by the arm and guides them through the door, or attempts to, at least. His unsteady grip makes opening the locks quite the show; Vergil leans back and observes how he struggles with the safety chain after he's done with the bolts. “Just let me suck you off against the fucking wall,” Dante mutters while he makes a complicated turning motion and kicks the lower frame rhythmically. Almost tangible, his aroused irritation at the door and Vergil and their gatekeeping; he is still maintaining his keyed-up state valiantly and full mast. He takes note on the fact that his close-fitting pants seem to be designed to accentuate every arch instead of concealing anything; he could fully believe them being a convincing paint job, had he not been kneading the fabric with his own hands earlier. Once he finally gets it open, Vergil finds himself shoved into the agency with no further ado. Dante steals a kiss when he has successfully closed the door. He does not mind.

Their cramped position is rather pleasing and what they are doing no longer technically qualifies as public obscenity − it would still be a criminal offence as incest, of course, but human morality has never been something to which he has paid any heed; additionally, his sibling does not seem to be awfully concerned about committing sodomy, either, if such conclusions can be made by feeling his stiff arousal jut out −, but there is still a degree of class one is supposed to maintain on the event of one's first sexual relations, even if idealistic scenes of beds covered in roses or luxurious rugs and gentle fire in the chimney in their childhood residence have been, for the time being, discarded. His partner in crime, however, happens to be a barbarian and also, just barely, a randy teenager, so the finer points of appropriate conduct are beyond his comprehension. He whines when Vergil pushes them apart but knows when to count his losses; inclining his head, he tugs him forward into the room.

Had he more time − or, to be frank, if he had more patience or trust in his twin's patience −, he would like to take a grand tour on the premises to map out the course of his life apart from him. His habits, his pastimes, his personality and state of mind reflected in his as such worthless belongings. In the low light of the room, caused by the fact that only half of the lights on the ceiling appear to be functional, what sticks out immediately are the shapes of a plethora of bottles, which cover a disturbing amount of the unoccupied surface of the room. There are bottles on the wall that lie on shelves and stick out from inexplicable nails on the wallpaper; there are bottles piled on the office chair and under it; there are bottles under his heels, crunching into finer macadam. It is a still life, certainly, but not of life, just of a compulsion. He is on the verge of saying something. When Dante turns to him, the words he has not given precise shape to yet die on his lips. He says nothing, but the carefully blank look in his eyes tells it is not something that he is willing to discuss in the foreseeable future. Vergil buries the thought and tries to focus on his backside that is on display when he bends over to haul them a plain chair.

(There is always an uncomfortable aspect to having to face the extent to which Dante loves him. Sometimes he has to turn away. Sometimes he despises himself for this weakness.)

After mellowing out most of the tenseness with increasingly enthusiastic fondling, his brother presents the piece of furniture with a flourish fit for a throne. Vergil sweeps down on the seat and folds his legs partly out of habit, partly to be a little contrary when the opportunity is presented at his feet so neatly. Dante retaliates by pressing his boot-covered foot against his crotch, not all that delicate. Vergil, not one to be defeated in face of a challenge in such a simple manner, keeps his ankle on his knee and rubs against the sole eagerly. The material is inflexible and he is already sore, but in spite of that the burn feels nearly as good as seeing his brother's reaction. Dante swears. The boot pushes harder and he rocks back just as forcefully, the contact agitating on his flesh; harder. He willingly forgets himself for a while, gets out of breath and enjoys the friction while maintaining direct, shameless eye contact. At the end of it, Dante's face must be redder than his.

“Fuck, can't believe you. Spread your legs for me,” he says hoarsely while getting down to his knees in front of him. Vergil detangles himself and obliges. It is neither a command nor a plea and yet, here they are. Dante's fingers on his fly are precise in fever-clear concentration when he tugs it open, careful to keep the pressure off his crotch. Vergil resists the urge to ruffle his hair in affection upon noting that he is all but sticking his tongue out in his concentrated efforts. He shudders at the contrast between his burning body heat and the cold air of the room when his already more than half-hard cock is freed. Dante's hands keep gripping his trousers and his cheekbones flush even darker, the shade similar to his kiss-swollen lips than open and close in a light sigh; he lets go and his fingers flutter above Vergil's lap until he sets them on his thighs, palms flat against the leather. His gaze flickers at his, then it is drawn back to his pelvis again.

“Does it still grow from this or are you just bigger?” Dante blurts out breathlessly and despite himself. An obvious nervous gesture − he seems annoyed with himself, judging by how his brows crease and eyes narrow minutely from the appreciative stare, but it is out, figuratively and literally. He has been worrying his lower lip with his teeth for a while now; Vergil swallows a sigh and sets his index finger on the glossy surface, freezing the movement. He meets his eyes and whatever he sees in them makes color return to his cheeks, high and keen. Perhaps the speech of not progressing further than what he is comfortable with is not necessary after all. “You ready?” Dante asks, a useless attempt to save a young face that Vergil does not begrudge. He shifts to spread his legs wider apart in affirmation and Dante settles even closer by bending down and bending his back to prop his bottom out while enclosing his firm hand around his length. The pose is ridiculous and highly impractical, but pointing that out seems unimportant when Dante gets his mouth on him. Many things do, suddenly.

He does not kiss the head like Vergil could have expected from him and his sentimentality. Instead, he licks his lips like it is an unconscious reaction and not a move he probably has appropriated from particularly vulgar adult entertainment as well and lowers his head to touch the underside of it with it, the tip against the sensitive curve. Emboldened by his careful lack of a reaction, he maps his way around the perimeter to reach the tip, where he laps the flat of his tongue against him. In motions that are already much surer, he feels about the slit and gets used to the shape of him, the taste, humming deep from his chest. Hot, wet pressure. Vergil shifts, leans back on the chair and pushes his dismantled hair from obscuring his view. Dante on his knees is always a sight to behold. Like this, he is overwhelming − what to focus on, the lips, the tongue, the hand around him, the one on him, his body heating up his, his darkened eyes luxuriating in his reactions.

His curiosity is promising a something slow and smoldering, a languid, tender burn. Vergil is warming up to the idea: while his skills are likely nowhere near to make him come apart inside him, his enthusiasm might, if he is determined enough to carry on like this and let the slide of his slick mouth unravel him. What he does next, however, is nothing of that sort; letting out a deep exhale he stretches his lips around the head and manages to fit his mouth around it with some visible effort and inelegant sounds. The noises become strangled when he tries to cram in even more. The muscles of his throat are clearly lacking some warming up judging by how impossibly tight he feels around him. Hot but achingly painful, cruel press around him, no longer enough slickness. His mouth does not slide down, he gets stuck and chokes and still swallows down more as if possessed. Dante goes down slow but nowhere near the speed he should, not when he has to fight against his protesting body like this; he swallows painedly, likely attempting to override his gag reflex that tries to prevent him from suffocating. He will not, of course, but he cannot convince his automatic bodily functions of the fact. The tongue works against his erection and draws a shiver from Vergil, more sore agony than pleasure that still keeps throbbing in Dante's throat, heavy with the beat of his pulse. His brother shoves and strains his head until his lips seal around the base of his cock which is now fully sheathed. His eyes shine wetly when his nose touches Vergil's body. It is difficult to discern if the voice Dante makes at this is a moan or a rattling, stifled cry. He retreats a couple of inches only to force himself back again, and soon he is bobbing his head up and down and sucking and trembling on the edge of choking himself on him.

Shaking from the extension, he fumbles to snake his right hand to release his own erection. It takes him several tries to figure out how the fastening works; his movements are far from steady and his fingers seem faint, powerless from the shortage of circulation that far north. Through his ague and frustration he keeps his vice-grip on his thigh and cock, as if he were trying to suck Vergil's soul out through a straw and to drown himself simultaneously in an inquisitive attempt to find out which occurs sooner.

Vergil has no need to lie and claim he has any more experience in this than Dante seems to have, but he has a vested interest in making this as satisfying for them both as possible. There is no doubt of him enjoying this as it is, trying to make Vergil fuck his clenching, punishing throat with a mindless abandon and forcing his own healing abilities to prevent death by lack of oxygen, but against the common misconception, Vergil gets no satisfaction out of being purposelessly brutal. Dante would doubtlessly get off to what he must comprehend as degrading himself, but it would be more gratifying to break him by tenderness. It is up for question if he wants it or is willing to accept it; when Dante has him read all wrong, he could be under the impression that this is what he allows there to be to them, that Dante will not be deemed worth a gentler flame. At the very least, Vergil can give him options.

He grips Dante's already sweaty hair hard enough to get his attention. When he raises his perplexed gaze, Vergil tugs again, harder, but when Dante merely whines against his cock and utterly fails to get the point, he sighs and presses a finger against his stretched lip, slipping it inside his mouth and drags his lips wider at the corner; it feels peculiar to sense it graze his own erection, he has to suppress an uninvited shudder. Dante sputters and finally − _unfortunately_ − lets him out. There are the beginnings of a fear of rejection flickering to his eyes − he's visibly unsure, suddenly starting to doubt if he is welcome, if he has trespassed or forced himself upon someone unwilling.

“Vergil?”

He kisses him and makes it unhurried and clean. While his touch is mild, it is still dirty when his own salt floods his mouth. Dante whines in a small voice − maybe it catches in his esophagus, maybe he has broken it, maybe he wants to reclaim the control he thought he had, even when his movements projected nothing of the sort.

“Slow down,” he says. If he cannot sense it being merely a suggestion and cannot interpret his plain tone and expression, maybe he is right and there is no room for anything but violence between them. He waits, still on full display. Dante looks at him quietly before letting out a weak laugh, almost disbelieving, and angling himself lower again. This time he slips his other hand closer to the one he is holding Vergil with to rub the gracilis through his clothes, the part connecting his thigh and pelvis responding by spasming ever so little. He begins anew with the reddened head a similar way to his earlier actions; his tongue laps on him before the lips, alternating between its broader blade and teasing him with only the apex and the edges. There is no actual rhythm to it but he is calm even when his breath picks up and his blush builds up again.

“Take your time,” he continues when he feels his mouth envelope the head. Dante attempts to nod and ends up hacking, but once he gets his airways under control, he seems to be happy to swallow it up. He assumes a comfortable and maddening pace of mouthing his cock and letting it almost slip from the lovely, spit-moist warmth of him. Vergil thumbs the spot between his neck and shoulder in idle circles and listens to his heartbeat.

When Dante's throat has warmed up and slackened into a hold that is tight but not bruisingly so, he buries more of him inside himself gradually. His enthusiasm materializes in a more rapid tempo in which he bows over his lap, but he seems to realize his breath and motions flow better when he does not try and take all of him in with his unseasoned technique. Judging by how hard it is to keep the pressure developing in his lower stomach from erupting and keeping his hips down, Vergil does not consider his inexpertness a disappointment. In fact, it might make it and him that much harder: this is something that Dante has shared with no one else. There is no soul on earth or in the underworld who would know what he looks like with his lips swollen stretched around his sex, so eager to please even when he is shaking in need himself, only needing to touch more than he needs to be touched. His eyes gleam with desperate longing and Vergil wonders idly it is reflected back at him when he watches him burn.

“Good,” he sighs. Dante makes a growl at the compliment; his own erection hangs between his legs red, wet and heavy, and he detaches his grapple on Vergil's trembling leg to jerk it in rough, messy strokes, spreading the accumulated dampness all over the straining length. Vergil, aflame at the sight, guides his head down invitingly and Dante makes a pleased hum, accepts him, takes more, gives more. It is terribly intimate − Vergil is still mostly clothed but he feels stark naked in front of him, all his vulnerabilities bared. He feels his throat work around him under his palm that he rests on it; he is not forgiven for the things he has done or will do to him, but there is no judgement here nevertheless.

He could control his face more efficiently, reign over his responses and shove them back into icy water, let the surface freeze over. He doesn't, he lets the small pained pleased sounds escape and leave his mouth slightly open, pale red color high on his cheeks, tensing and relaxing his brows in tandem with the way his lover works his mouth on him. If Dante is too focused on his lower body to notice this, it is his prerogative. Despite the loud wet sounds his movements produce, he must still be able to hear him. “Dante,” he says, softly.

Something runs through his brother and makes him lose his focus. He feels teeth graze his erection in a sharp caress before Dante manages to pull himself back. He tilts his chin up and kisses his coarse “fuck, I'm sorry”s silent.

“I'm so alone,” Dante confesses breathlessly against his lips and Vergil tastes the desperation spilling from his lips. 

(Sometimes, he hates himself.)

Before he finds a way to spin the nebulous regret billowing on his tongue into a more solid shape, Dante has pressed his throat on him again. Vergil tries to pull his damp locks to make sure he is not too unbalanced to go on, but the only answer he receives is a glare. _Let me have this_.

He does.

“Dante,” he cries out in warning, giving him enough time to retreat. Dante continues even more fervently and Vergil can feel his abrupt smile stretch on him. He lets go. Dante makes inelegant sounds and in general a mess, some of his seed spilling from his mouth before he manages to swallow all of it. He catches the spillage with his hands quickly and licks it clean before locking his lips around his cock, intently sucking him even when he is already spent, sore and swollen.

Dante is not far himself. He would love to tease him over the edge, feel him come in his hand, but Dante keels over before he has moved a muscle, seemingly surprising himself as well. He shakes through his orgasm with his mouth still glued around Vergil, his whines and moans reverberating almost painfully on his skin.

He rests his cheek against this thigh and just breathes for a long moment. Vergil's hand is playing with the threads of his hair. He does not remember when he laced it there. Dante is silent, his color setting but his somber mood resurfacing from beneath the waters. Ah, post-coitus depression − a funeral for the smallest of deaths. He channels his inner Dante to make light of a situation that is threateningly spiraling out of his control.

When Dante speaks, his voice is wrecked.

“So. Is this where you leave me again?”

Judging by sudden tightness of his throat, it is something Vergil would like to know as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to make an excursion to Vergil pov when I got way too inspired and sketched out a long plot about him. Now it won't let me alone D: Let's see if I'll write it after I'm done with part 2 of this series.
> 
> (The word count is mostly intentional this time, couldn't resist.)


End file.
